


White Linen

by redscudery



Series: Amanuensis [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom John, Clothing Kink, Crossdressing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom John, Regency, Rimming, Sherlock in petticoats, WHY IS THAT NOT A THING?, but I swear I'm not falling into the binaries, period clothing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock distrusts the white froth of petticoats John has laid on the bed for him....until he puts them on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Linen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [masked-alias (sherlocked_n_loaded)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_n_loaded/gifts), [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).



> (who both, incidentally, did the beta for this. World's least surprising surprise, ahoy!)

Sherlock saw that John had just come from the bath, and went himself in search of hot water. When he emerged a short time later, clean and scrubbed, John was waiting for him, swathed in a blue banyan and absentmindedly flicking through his accounts book.

On the bed lay a froth of white. Women's clothes. Women’s underclothes.

Sherlock looked at them, and looked at John.

"What's this, John?"

"As if you don't know."

"Well, yes, fine, but why are they here? Did you deflower a laundress?"

"Very funny. I like it when you're jealous."

"I"m not jealous."

He was, though.

"They're for you."

“I’m not going to wear women’s clothes.”

“Whyever not?” John’s amused expression made Sherlock feel suddenly prickly.

“I’m not a woman, which everyone knows, and thus I refuse to humiliate myself by wearing feminine garments in public!”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said, standing, “Who said anything at all about public?”

Sherlock blushed to the roots of his hair.

“I still don’t… I mean, I never thought about… I haven’t imagined…” He stopped, cursing himself for stammering.

John’s predatory smile grew wider.

“Just because,” he said, “you have not thought about it does not mean you won’t like it. Try them on.”

“I don’t want to be a woman!”

“I don’t want you to be a woman either.” John said, running his hand along Sherlock’s belly. “I want you as a man. But I want you as a man in very fine fabrics, Sherlock.” He held up what appeared to be a pair of linen drawers, so sheer that the sun shone through.

“Feel them. They’re almost like silk.”

Sherlock reached out tentatively and took the garment between his fingers. They were soft, the slippery silk ribbon providing a sweet contrast to the fabric. He felt the first rush of heavy arousal roll to his groin, and he set down his towel. John smiled at his compliance, and sat back down.

“These first, then, and the chemise after.”

Sherlock stepped into the drawers and pulled them up along his thighs. They whispered along his skin like John’s own mouth, and his cock throbbed again. John beckoned.

“Very good, Sherlock. Now let me tie them.”

Sherlock stepped between John’s spread knees with only the slightest hesitation. The fabric slid against his cock as he took the one step. The touch of John’s warm skin against his calves was slightly dizzying, and his breath hitched.

John ran his hands up along Sherlock’s hips to his waist, then tied each tie deliberately. “Lovely,” he sighed, and Sherlock felt the warmth and heat of it almost as if on his own skin. John lowered his lips to the tops of Sherlock’s thighs and kissed along the border between the clothing and the skin, sending sweet shivers up Sherlock’s body.

“John…”

“Shh,” John mumbled against his skin. His hair was bright against the cream of the fabric, and Sherlock leaned forward, trying to brush his cock against John, needing already. John straightened up and sat back, and, grasping Sherlock’s hips, turned him around. He continued the same caresses along the tender backs of Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock drew a shuddering breath, his cock hard and aching.

“You like it, don’t you,” John said, not asking. “You like the softness.”

“I like what you do to me,” Sherlock said, holding on to what will he had.

“I know,” John said. “Now,the chemise.” And he nipped the fleshiest part of Sherlock’s arse through the fabric of the drawers.

“OH!”

“Shh. Thin walls.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but did not speak. He drew the chemise over his shoulders and let it fall to his waist. John pulled him closer again and kissed his stomach, sniffing the soft skin appreciatively before brushing his open mouth along the line between fabric and skin. Sherlock arched his hips against John’s neck in pleasure.

“Sit,” John said, after permitting this caress for a moment. Sherlock sat on the proffered knee. He could feel a sliver of John’s bare thigh against his own flesh, and wriggled to allow greater contact, but John held him still.

“Let me touch you,” he said, and bent to kiss the vee of Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock threw his head back as John worked his way down; before long, John had taken one sensitive pink nipple between his teeth through the chemise, biting expertly to send little shocks to the base of Sherlock’s cock.

“More,” Sherlock gasped, and he could feel John laughing against him as he moved to bestow equal attention on the other.  When John’s mouth left him, he was bereft, and he opened his mouth to beg for more.

“No. Quiet.” John said, and kissed him. Sherlock gulped at that mouth like a starving man, but John held him firmly back, nibbling at his lips until Sherlock growled in frustration.

“Petticoats, please,” John said, breaking away. That his erection stood out hard from the folds of the banyan was only a slight consolation to Sherlock, who felt dizzy with desire. Still, he fumbled for the last garment. John offered no help, but after several deep breaths Sherlock managed to get the petticoats around his waist and fasten the tapes. He stood, five steps from John in the middle of the room, and waited, the petticoats an unfamiliar but not unpleasant weight around his legs.

“Now what?” he asked, voice low.

“Now,” John said, standing “you get on your knees on the bed.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew wide.

“Why?”

“Because I want to see your gorgeous arse.” John stepped forward, took Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kissed him again, tenderly.

“You won’t, with these things on,” Sherlock grumbled, without heat, after his desire to savour John’s lips had been sated.

“Oh, I will,” John said, caressing the length of Sherlock’s body. “Do it.”

Sherlock climbed on to the bed, careful not to rip the delicate skirts. He settled himself on his elbows and waited. He could hear John’s steps behind him, presumably taking in the view from every angle.

Then, the steps stopped, and Sherlock felt the heat of John’s body at his back, and John’s firm hands were on his waist, pressing the tapes into his skin, sliding around and cupping his arse.  John gathered the fabric of the petticoats in his hand, gripping them as if savouring the weight of the material. Sherlock ducked his head and waited, shifting with impatience. His erection had flagged slightly, but as John trailed his finger down along Sherlock’s buttocks, it sprang up again. That it was constrained in fine lawn seemed only to add to the torment; he pushed against it, though there was little friction.

“Patience,” John breathed, and let his fingers continue their way. The teasing lightness was everywhere at once, and Sherlock held still. Then, just as his patience was about to give out, John’s hand cupped his balls with gratifying firmness and then stroked, more pressure--not enough, but more--along the root of his cock. Sherlock bucked back, desperate, and John let him have what he wanted for a moment before pulling back.   
Sherlock could feel the dampness of the fabric at the tip of his cock but did not dare push. He waited, as patiently as possible under the circumstances (not very, as John was later to say).

John parted the drawers. Cooler air flowed over the fabric and his sliver of exposed skin, and Sherlock gasped.

“Sherlock,” John said, “I’m warning you now to keep very, very quiet.”

“I will,” Sherlock answered, a little insulted. He could keep quiet if he wanted to. He just rarely wanted to.

Then John leaned over, parted the firm rounded globes of Sherlock’s arse with his hands, and touched his tongue to the thin fabric over Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock bit his lip, his determination to be quiet dissolving almost immediately.

John flicked his tongue, and Sherlock cried out. He arched his back to get closer, but John gave one short, firmer stroke and drew away.

“I said ‘quiet’, Sherlock, not ‘alert the maids’.”

“I will,” panted Sherlock, “I will be quiet.” Grasping a pillow, he leaned into it.

“Go on,” he said, though by John’s short huff of breath behind him it was clear that the words had been inaudible.

John did, and, without touching Sherlock’s cock again, brought him very nearly to his crisis with the flicks of his tongue alone.

When he stopped, Sherlock nearly shouted with frustration; instead, once he was certain John was not simply extending the sweet torture, he pulled himself out of the pillow and looked back. John was standing behind the bed, watching him; he smiled as Sherlock raised his head.

Sherlock flopped back on the bed for form’s sake, but he felt much less petulant seeing John standing there, a tightness to his mouth which betokened a sort of helpless desire that John rarely betrayed. Sherlock knew that, in a moment, he could have John soft and wanting beneath him, yet he waited and watched first.

John’s banyan hung loose, his body slim and powerful beneath it. His cock stood, the tip slick in a way that made Sherlock’s tongue twitch in his mouth. He tried to move from the bed, the only thought in his mind to be on his knees in front of John, but the petticoats impeded him and he wrestled them away with a curse.

But when he stood, perforce, and the froth of fabric fell once again to his ankles (who had John gotten these from? There were so few women as tall as he), the slide against his sensitive flesh sent a thrill through him. John’s eyes hot upon him did the same, and suddenly Sherlock was desperate again. He sank to his knees before John’s cock and without any teasing, took the heavy head in his mouth. John sighed, some of the tension falling from his body. Sherlock sucked, taking in as much of John’s length as he could, and worked to bring another tension to the fore.

He watched, though, and when John was trembling on the edge of pleasure, he stopped, stood, and kissed John again. John gasped into his mouth, and arched his hips against Sherlock’s, and their cocks came together through the petticoats and drawers. They clung to each other, John’s hands grasping the fall of skirts, until their breathing was harsh and their skin flushed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock gasped, finally, when he could stand it no longer. John nipped his lip but said nothing, and Sherlock saw that he was in that rare, trancelike state in which Sherlock needed to take him over and bring them both to pleasure.

He bent his mouth back to John’s and took one more slow kiss, tasting the warm pliancy of John’s body with hands and lips. Then, he divested John of his banyan and laid him gently on the bed.

As Sherlock stood back and admired John’s slim, muscled frame, sprawled loosely on the duvet, John’s arse drew his eye. He bent to kiss the bottom curve of John’s left buttock, then let his tongue drift towards the inside of the thigh. John sighed, and opened his legs, exposing the small pink hole that gave them both so much pleasure . John smelled of soap and fresh sweat, and Sherlock’s mouth watered. Would John like the same caress he, Sherlock, had adored?

He got to his knees and made himself some room, trailing his tongue down the crack until it hovered over that most vulnerable of places. John pushed back towards him, almost begging; Sherlock swiped his tongue over it in one broad stroke, tasting the sweetness of John’s skin. John’s deep groan encouraged him to continue, and Sherlock teased around it before giving another swipe. John’s hips stuttered. Sherlock, daring, darted his tongue inside, first lightly and then more insistently, moving with the rocking of John’s body. He lost all sense of himself; his own pleasure was all in tasting the man beneath him and feeling his body loosen and tense all at once, riding his tongue, open to him and begging wordlessly for more.

It was only when John’s cries took on a note of frustration that Sherlock stopped. He realized then just how hard he was himself. Gathering the petticoats, he put himself up to the charge, penetrating with the tip right away, hoping to placate John’s need.  John, though, feeling the weight of the fabric drop over him was more than ready, and sank back upon him until Sherlock was almost fully seated. Clutched in the slick grasp of John’s body, Sherlock felt a dizzying delight; pushing in again and again, he felt himself at the brink of pleasure much sooner than he would have liked, and he forced himself to think of soil pHs of the back field and the stable yard until he was calm enough to focus on John’s body beneath him again.

John had lost his words; he was, heedless of his prior insistence on silence, making harsh growling noises into the bedclothes. One hand was back behind him, twined in the petticoats. Sherlock smiled and slowed his stroke, relishing the drag and the sound, before reaching down and taking John’s cock in his hand. He slicked his thumb over the head and John’s arse contracted around him as his body bucked into the caress. John sighed then, low and sweet, and Sherlock held on, waiting for John to fall apart beneath him. When John’s limbs started to tremble, Sherlock slowed further.

In the last moment, though,  John whispered “Stop!”

Sherlock pulled away and watched, surprised, as John sat up, face flushed and cock bobbing.

“I want,” he husked, reaching for Sherlock with both hands, “I want to see you,”

“Oh,” Sherlock said faintly, and tumbled down beside him, kissing his face in a sudden, frantic ecstasy. John was letting himself be kissed, eyes closed, and scrabbling at the front of the petticoats once again. He groaned when he uncovered Sherlock’s cock, wrapping his hand around it and shifting his hips towards Sherlock’s at the same time. Sherlock took John closer, then slid his cock along John’s and then under along his ballocks as John thrust up against the sheer fabric rucked around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock nudged John’s thighs slightly apart and, slicking his hand against John’s mouth, slid his cock inside John again.

They both watched then, as they rocked: the tip of John’s cock was dark red in the white folds, and Sherlock’s pale thighs stretched out below.  Sherlock gathered the fabric in his hand and began to jerk John’s cock slowly; John’s mouth fell slack, and though he kept looking, his eyes were unfocused. Sherlock held them together, timing each movement to coordinate, until he felt John’s cock harden again, in that last flush before climax. That he, Sherlock, was responsible--though this was nowhere like their first coupling--still drove him over the edge, and he felt himself stiffen and come, buried deep inside John. His own cry of pleasure brought on John’s crisis, and the milk-white spend jetted out over the fabric and over Sherlock’s belly. 

Sherlock curled around John and held him close. It was only later, after he had watched John blink himself back to sense, that he asked, quietly, to keep the petticoats.

**Author's Note:**

> A banyan is a loose cotton print robe.
> 
> At this time the drawers Sherlock would be wearing would have had a slit in them (crotchless, if you will) to permit easy use of bathroom facilities, so that’s how their skin is touching.


End file.
